The Lost Soldier

by Costeloe Diney

  Tomorrow we are going by train to the boat to cross the channel. I’ve never been on the sea before.

  8

  They left for France four days before Molly was due for her next visit home. She had seen neither of her parents since she had left the farm on that last occasion, and as far as she knew her father had no knowledge she was going away. Had Mam managed to keep the secret after all she wondered? Or had she not really believed that Molly would go? Had she simply assumed, as no doubt her father had, that Molly would obey his dictates and come home docilely after working her month’s notice? Whichever it was, Molly was relieved that her father had not arrived breathing fire at the manor to button-hole the squire and announce that his daughter was leaving the manor and going to work in the munitions factory. If Dad had heard about nursing in France, he would have dragged her home on the spot, notice or no notice.

  Sarah had had a battle with her own father. The evening she had followed him into the library, the squire had remained adamant that she could not go, but as she finally pointed out to him, “You can’t stop me, Father. I shall use mother’s money and Molly and I will travel together quite safely.”

  “Your aunt says that the Reverend Mother, or whatever the woman is called…”

  “You know perfectly well what she is called, Father,” put in Sarah patiently.

  “Your aunt says that she must have my permission in writing to allow you to go, and I shan’t give it!”

  “Then I shall go without it,” Sarah returned quietly. “They are crying out for nurses, and I doubt if they will actually turn me away if I turn up, even without a letter from you.”

  “I shall write and say you are not coming,” her father said firmly.

  “And I shall go just the same,” Sarah said, equally firmly. “If they turn me away, I shall find another hospital that will have me.” She smiled seraphically at her father. “Of course that would mean wandering about France on our own with no particular place to go, but I expect we could find somewhere in the end.”

  Her father looked at her and saw, on his daughter’s face, the steely expression of determination her mother had worn when she had announced to her parents that she was marrying George Hurst, not of the Roman church. It was an expression with which he had grown familiar, and seeing it again on Sarah’s face now, he knew when he was beaten.

  “You can’t drag young Molly Day round the battlefields!” Sir George continued to sound outraged. “What does her father say to all this nonsense?”

  “He says that provided we are travelling together to a relative of mine, he has no objection to Molly going. After all, maids travel with their mistresses every day. Why should this be any different?”

  Molly had taken a risk. When Sarah had asked her if her parents had any objection to her going to France, she had said, with a perfectly straight face, “None at all, Miss Sarah. I work for Squire now, miss, and if he’s says I should go then that’s all right with them. They know I’ll be quite safe with you, miss.” Sarah had been so pleased that Molly had agreed to go that she didn’t query this easy acceptance of the situation from Molly’s parents. She made no effort to check that they had given their approval, and with her acceptance, Molly was relying on the fact that the squire would accept it too. Once they had gone, and her father discovered they had, he would be over to the manor in a towering rage, but with luck he wouldn’t discover immediately and by then it would be too late.

  As she had left the farm that last afternoon, Molly had hugged her mother tightly, taking a silent farewell. Her mother had returned the hug and then they parted, neither of them speaking another word. Molly, turning away, strode out of the farmyard without a backward glance. Her father, returning through the autumn twilight for his tea, had seen her tramping up the footpath to the hilltop, and knew that she had left early to avoid him. He was not surprised, but he certainly expected her to be moving back home in a month’s time.

  Once he had given in, Sir George had been generous in his defeat. He gave Sarah a three-month advance on her allowance, and promised to arrange for her to continue to receive it whilst she was in France.

  “You’ll have to pay young Molly her wages as usual,” he told her, “so I’ve added them to what I’ll be sending.” He looked resignedly at his daughter and said, “Oh Sarah, I do hope you know what you’re doing.”

  Sarah’s answering hug confused him, he was not a demonstrative man, and he turned away to hide his emotion.

  Sir George drove them to the station in his motor. Molly felt very grand sitting in the dickey seat, their luggage piled round her. Her one fear was that her father might see them on the road or be in Belcaster that day, but as they followed the road past the end of the Valley Farm track there was no sign of him, and even if he were in Belcaster, Molly thought, he was most unlikely to be at the station.

  They reached the station in plenty of time and when the London train chuffed in, blowing steam and smoke up into the glass roof above the platform, the porter Sir George had found put their luggage into an empty first-class carriage compartment. They stood on the platform, surrounded by crowds of men in uniform saying goodbye to their loved ones, packs and kitbags heaped beside them. The noise and the bustle were exciting, and Molly felt the hollow feeling she had had in her stomach all morning, give way to the contagious excitement around her. Her eyes roved the platform, but returned hastily to their own little group as she saw several women bravely fighting tears as they said their farewells.

  While they were waiting for the guard to whistle them aboard, the squire looked down at Molly and said genially, “Your parents not coming to see you off, young Molly?”

  Molly flushed but offered her prepared lie smoothly, “No, sir. We didn’t want to say goodbye at the station, like. We said our goodbyes at home.”

  Sir George nodded approvingly and slipping a guinea into her hand said, “Something to keep by you on the journey, Molly, just in case.”

  Molly looked at the coin in her hand. She had never had so much money at one time. “Oh, sir, thank you, sir.” She managed a flustered bob and then as she scrambled up into the carriage, Sir George added, “Look after Miss Sarah for me, Molly, and make sure she doesn’t get into mischief.”

  Molly looked down at him, startled, and said, “Lord, sir, I can’t tell Miss Sarah what to do!”

  The squire smiled and said, “No, nor can anyone, but look after her all the same.”

  The train stopped at several stations on the way, and at the first three officers clambered up into the compartment. Seeing Sarah and Molly seated there already they apologised. One of them introduced himself as Captain James Shiner and said, “So sorry to disturb you ladies, but may we share your compartment? The train is devilish full today.”

  “Certainly, please do,” Sarah replied, and for the rest of the journey, she, at least, was supplied with interesting and congenial conversation. Molly, of course, took no part in this conversation, but spent the journey looking out at the countryside through which they sped. She was fascinated by the glimpses of the country she saw. Villages, nameless in the distance, crouched round their parish churches, factory chimneys stood out against the sky belching out smoke into its autumn paleness; wagons drawn ploddingly along the lanes and the occasional gleaming motor, speeding along at anything up to forty miles an hour, a policeman on his bicycle and a woman pushing someone in a Bath chair; it seemed to Molly an endless tapestry of other people’s lives. Workers in the fields paid no attention to the passing train, but children on bridges and beside level crossing gates jumped up and down and waved vigorously, and Molly, after one quick glance over her shoulder at Sarah, laughing with the officers, waved back.

  I can’t believe we’re really on our way, she thought with a surge of excitement. We’re really going to France. It will be the adventure of my life and I must never forget a minute of it. I’m going to keep a diary, a journal, and write down everything that happens to me.

  Molly had been made to rea
d diaries at school, but though she liked the idea of recording her doings she had always considered her own life too ordinary and boring to write about; the parts that were not dull, she would never have dared to record. How her father treated her and her mother, she could never have put down. There was nowhere safe in the house to hide that sort of diary. But now, on the train rushing her, unknowing, into the future, she tried to clasp to herself all that had happened so far that day, so that she wouldn’t forget it. Suddenly, clearly, a diary was the answer. At the first opportunity, she promised herself, she would buy a notebook and several pencils and she would begin.

  At each stop more and more servicemen poured into the carriages, so that when the train finally approached London, it was crammed to capacity. It lumbered slowly through the outskirts, and the scenes through the window changed. Fields and woodland gave way to built-up areas, villages to sprawling suburbs. Molly was amazed at the views she got of terraced houses in endless rows, their small rectangular gardens running to the edge of the track. Bustling streets, lined with houses or rows of shops, and the occasional church on a street corner towering over it all. How could so many people live so close together she wondered?

  At Paddington, Captain Shiner helped them to find a porter and then a taxi to take them to Carver Square in Bloomsbury, where Sir George’s widowed sister, Lady Horner, lived. He asked if he might call on Miss Hurst there, but Sarah felt that meeting on a train hardly constituted being introduced, and regretted that they would be on their way to France in a couple of days, and preparing for the journey would allow them no time to receive social calls. Captain Shiner appeared to accept this refusal and wished them the very best of luck in France.

  Sarah wished him the same, and when he had handed her into the cab he added, “All of England will be grateful to you, ma’am,” he said and saluting smartly, turned away and was swallowed into the crowds on the station.

  Looking out of the taxi window, Molly exclaimed, “Oh Miss Sarah, I’ve never seen anything like this. When we was on the train I thought we was in London long before we got here, what with all them houses and all! Look at this traffic! There’s motors everywhere as well as trams, and people, hundreds of people.”

  Sarah laughed. “It is the capital, you know,” she said. “It’s the biggest city in the world.” But even she had not expected such a crush at the station. Last time she had ventured up to London, it had been with Freddie and her father, before the war. The trains had been half empty, and the station concourse had not been a mass of khaki. She had been very grateful to Captain Shiner for helping them with luggage and cab, and was looking forward to their safe arrival at her aunt’s house in Carver Square.

  Carver Square proved to be a quiet little square near the British Museum, with a fenced garden in its centre, shaded by tall trees. There was a sharp wind as they alighted from the taxi, and leaves whirled down from the garden trees, scurrying across the road in swirling eddies.

  Sarah shivered and said briskly, “Now Molly, run up and pull the bell, it’s too cold to stand out here.” She paid off the cab and turned to find that Molly had done her bidding and there was a manservant coming down the red and white brick steps to collect their luggage. He picked up Sarah’s valise and left Molly to struggle with the dressing case and her own suitcase.

  “Follow me, Miss Hurst,” he said leading the way up the steps again. “Madam is expecting you.”

  At the door another man was waiting to greet them, older and far more imposing, whom Sarah recognised from previous visits as Roberts, the butler.

  “Please come in, Miss Hurst, Madam is in the drawing room. May I take your coat?” He entirely ignored Molly, but Sarah said straightaway, “Thank you, Roberts. How are you? This is my maid, Molly Day. I’m sure you’ll look after her.” She turned round to Molly and said in a lofty tone Molly had never heard her use before, “Molly, go with Mr Roberts and when you have seen where you are to sleep, you can unpack for me. I’ll send for you when I need you.” She turned away again and walked towards the door that Roberts was opening for her. Molly watched as she disappeared into the fire-lit room beyond and then, picking up the cases once more, followed the footman, who was called John, through the heavy oak door that led below stairs.

  The next day was spent in a whirl of shopping. Sarah had written to Freddie to tell him of her plans, and though he, too, was doubtful of the propriety of her expedition, he knew her too well to think he could dissuade her from it, and answered in detail with a list of things which she should bring with her, most for her own comfort, a few things for his.

  I hope to be able to get some leave before very long, he wrote, not Blighty leave, but at least a few days’ local leave so that I can come and see you at Aunt Anne’s convent. We are not allowed to name places in our letters as you know, but I am not far from there.

  They spent an eye-opening morning in large London stores buying almost everything on the list including socks and shirts to take out to Freddie.

  “He says it’s almost impossible to stay dry in the trenches,” Sarah told her aunt. “These are not all for him.”

  It would be difficult to carry very much with them, but Sarah packed all their purchases into parcels and addressed them to herself care of the convent. There were bandages and aspirins, thread and needles, chocolate, paper and pencils, soap, towels and some fine tooth combs. Freddie had said that one of the problems they all faced were lice. Sarah shuddered at the thought of lice in her long hair and not for the first time hoped that she was not too squeamish for the task she had set herself. At the last minute she added some feminine requirements for herself and Molly. These had not been mentioned by Freddie, but had been suggested delicately by Lady Horner.

  “It’s not the sort of thing a gentleman would think of, but you will need them nonetheless and they may be difficult to acquire in a military hospital.”

  No less embarrassed than her aunt, a red-faced Sarah agreed and discreetly sent Molly to buy the required sanitary towels and added them to one of the parcels.

  They sailed from Newhaven on the Sussex, a small civilian boat that still carried passengers across the channel. Although it was an entirely civilian boat and held firmly to the international agreement that no military supplies should be carried, the captain was a cautious man and the journey took twice as long as in peace time as he zigzagged his way to France for fear of German submarines.

  Molly was terrified they would be torpedoed and sunk by one of these, but Sarah, though also afraid, tried to reassure her.

  “We’re quite safe, Molly,” she said cheerfully. “This is not a military ship, you know. It’s just the steam packet. We’ve no supplies for the army on board or anything like that. Even the Germans wouldn’t sink a ship full of civilian passengers.” She lowered her voice and nodded in the direction of a middle-aged couple standing at the rail and gazing out towards France. “Those people are called Mr and Mrs Hodges. They’ve been called to the hospital in Etaples to see their son. He’s so badly wounded that they can’t even get him home to England.”

  Molly flicked her eyes in the direction of the couple where the man stood with his arm round the woman and she gripped his hand in one of hers, an unusual display of affection in such a public place. “How do you know, Miss Sarah?”

  “I heard Mrs Hodges ask one of the crew when we would dock. She said her son was dying.”

  Molly stared at her for a moment and then murmured, “Oh, Miss Sarah, I don’t think I’m going to be any good at this, boys dying round me and that.”

  Sarah put her hand on Molly’s arm and said, “Of course you will, Molly. Better than me probably. But we’ll both just have to do our best. At least we’ll have somewhere safe to live, and will be able to get cleaned up when we go off duty. My aunt says they have set aside a room for us in the guest wing of the convent.”

  “Both of us together, miss, sharing?” Molly sounded startled.

  “Certainly sharing,” Sarah said firmly. “And we
’re lucky to have that. There’s no space for separate rooms. Some of the building has been turned over to make more wards, and I believe there are huts outside as well.” Sarah paused, gazing out over the steel grey sea that heaved gently as they chugged their way across. Might there indeed be a submarine lurking under the water? Might they unknowingly be minutes away from death in the cold English Channel? It put life into perspective; things that had seemed so important only recently now seemed of little consequence, and other things, other people, suddenly became much more significant. She glanced across at Molly, brave Molly, who had followed her to France because she thought she ought to, not from any real conviction of her own about nursing the wounded; who had left home and family and ventured out into a world from which she would have shrunk only weeks before.

  “Molly,” she began, and then hesitated, wanting to say something of her thoughts, but unsure of exactly what.

  “Yes, Miss Sarah?” Molly, clutching her overcoat about her thin shoulders against the wind, turned her gaze from the sea and looked expectantly at her.

  “I think,” began Sarah and paused again before saying in a rush, “I think while we are out here in France together, you should simply call me Sarah. Drop the ‘miss’.”

  Molly looked horrified. “Oh, Miss Sarah, I couldn’t!”

  Her horrified expression made Sarah laugh and she took Molly’s hand. “Yes, you could. We’re in this together, Molly. I dragged you here, and while we face the same difficulties and dangers,” her eyes returned for a moment to the grey water, “it seems to me that we should be friends, each helping the other, not mistress and servant. Don’t you think?”